


The Tide Can Hold You Out

by sunsetdreamer



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: 2x07, 2x08, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03 Finale, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetdreamer/pseuds/sunsetdreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are changing, changing, changing. Though it's difficult to notice when one is not a telescope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tide Can Hold You Out

**Author's Note:**

> There are few things as terrifying to me as jumping into a new fandom. But I’ve been without one for far too long and I’m madly in love with these characters, and it is time for me to rip off the band-aid. I have a tendency to start off one way and then become increasingly saccharine… apparently it doesn’t matter the fandom. Sorry. And I’m sorry for anything that I ruin by being too Canadian to pass for Australian (though one amazing perk to this fandom is knowing I am solidly in the right for once with my spelling). And I’m sorry for any A03 faux pas; I have never actively used this account before and I don’t have a handle on it yet. Dispatch got me hooked on this show and RositaLG got my fic wheels turning, so send complaints their way. Just kidding; they’re my only friends. Please don’t.

* * *

 

_And oh my touch it magnifies,  
you pull away, you don’t know why._

**_Third Eye,_ ** _Florence + the Machine_

 

Act II 

 

They change abruptly. A single crime scene and an unclear telegram is all it takes, evidently. They’ve become unlikely colleagues, unlikely friends, and though they’ve dabbled with flirtations and the pleasure of one another’s company at societally inappropriate late hours, the camaraderie is enough for them. Enough for Jack, who remembers what it is like to smile. Enough for Phryne, who remembers what it is like to value a man’s friendship more than his body. 

The car wreck sends them into a tailspin and a series of misunderstandings ends with her making light of a situation at the exact wrong time. They are talking in her parlour, as they have countless times before, and it takes her a little too long to realise that Jack is not just brooding; he is overwhelmed and blindsided by the depth of his own emotions, and he is looking for more than a little bit of distance. Jack Robinson is looking to sever ties altogether. They have always made a good team but they are also prone to reaching haste judgements and conclusions. Natural ability in the art of reading people means they are proud and confident and very good at what they do, but every once in a while – as had been the case in a small bathroom not so long ago – they are wrong. On this evening, she is wrong. On this evening, she has fallen into their habit of banter and jest and it is not what Jack needs. And now he is running. 

Her initial reaction is to pretend that it never happened; willful ignorance of Jack’s annoyance _is_ how she and Jack had got their initial start, after all. So the very next day, she dons a particularly flattering outfit, all loud silks and fluttering furs, and the red lipstick that makes her feel confident. Desired. Impossibly alluring. She arrives at the City South station in a cloud of French perfume and her determination and charisma are clearly at an all time high because every member of the constabulary seems to be more entranced by her presence than usual. 

“Good Morning, gentlemen.” 

Hugh is the first to recover and he gives her a polite – yet uncomfortable – nod. “Morning, Miss Fisher.” 

She moves to skip past him and he rushes to step in front of her, though his reluctance is written all over his face. “The inspector asked that he not be disturbed.” 

Darling Hugh. But Jack couldn’t be _seriously_ avoiding her if he had left Hugh in charge of keeping her out.

 “Oh come now, Hugh; surely that doesn’t extend to _me_.” 

Hugh takes another step to counter hers even as he stammers. “I- I’m sorry Miss, but he was very clear with his instructions.” 

Phryne narrows her eyes at the frosted glass door, certain that the object of her _dis_ affection is well aware that she’s here. She grows tired of playing with the young constable and feigns left, then deftly twirls around him. Hugh briefly reaches in her direction and then almost immediately pulls back, shifting nervously as his gaze flits between Phryne and the door. 

Phryne gives him a charming smile and places one hand on the doorknob. “Don’t worry, Hugh! I won’t be but a minute.” 

She’s on the other side of the door before he can get a word in. But Jack doesn’t look up from the files covering his desk and she rolls her eyes before flouncing across the room and sinking heavily into the chair across from him. 

“A particularly busy day for you, Inspector?” 

“Yes, as it happens. Though I expect that will do little to deter you from being a thorn in my side.” 

His back is stiff and he’s cold, and he still does not look up from his desk. Phryne’s hands fidget with the ends of her scarf, out of his line of sight. 

“Jack.” 

Her voice is soft. She doesn’t beg (not for anyone. Not even for him), but it commands him nonetheless and his eyes finally lift from the case file. There’s a crack in his polished finish, and she rushes to wiggle into the cavity before he can recover and repair it.

 “I very much dislike fighting with you; it leaves me feeling out of sorts.” 

“Heaven forbid you be left feeling out of sorts, Miss Fisher.” 

The chill in his voice has slightly thawed, and she can’t suppress the beginnings of a smile even as she fights to keep her tone bored. “Passive aggression does not become of you, Jack.”

 But she’s made another tactical error, attempting to cajole him back into being her friend. He’s always been better than most at resisting her and he seems to remember this at precisely the moment she convinces herself that the trip to the station is going to work out in her favour. 

He picks up his pencil and reabsorbs himself in his writing. Phryne leans over the desk to peek at his work, guessing (accurately) that he isn’t writing much of anything at all, and Jack slams the file closed and tosses the pencil on top of it in exasperation.

 “Some of us need to work for a living, Miss Fisher. If there isn’t anything else- 

“You said you were going to think this through, Jack. You can’t possibly believe- 

“You haven’t given me time to think! I _can’t_ think around you, Phryne.” It’s difficult to tell which of them is more surprised by his outburst. Her name is a slip of the tongue, and she can tell that he immediately regrets it. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You never… you never give me time to think.” 

He disappears inside himself again and leaves Phryne figuratively alone in the room. Well, she’s dealt with enough abandonment in her lifetime, thank you. And she will not _chase_. The Honourable Phryne Fisher does the leaving. Her temper climbs and she pushes back in the chair, darkly satisfied when it screeches angrily against the floor. And she hopes, as she stalks toward the door and yanks it open, that it stings him when she walks away just as much as it had stung to have him walk out of her parlour last night. 

She resists the urge to slam the door. She closes it firmly and takes a deep breath to compose herself, and she is a whirlwind of sunshine and blinding energy when she walks confidently back into the common area. 

Hugh stands to attention and nearly knocks the phone off the counter – yet again – in his haste. 

“At ease, Hugh,” she breezes past him. “I won’t be bothering the Inspector again.”

* * *

 

Act I 

 

They do not change abruptly. They are clever and they are stubborn and they do not like to admit to missing Important Facts, but the unbiased truth is, for months, they are changing. They change with a borrowed scarf and a ride on the scenic railway, they change with smuggled champagne and talks of dangerous lingerie, they change when a fiercely independent hand reaches without looking in a moment of heartache, and is taken in the firm grip of one so strong, so steady, she is nearly as overwhelmed by gratitude as she is by grief. Long before any of this, they change over trespassing, mugshots, and the subsequent hard bargain of gratin for case files. He forgets that he’s supposed to be annoyed. She forgets that she’s supposed to be somewhat flighty. They learn that the other is deserving of far more credit than first impressions had led them to believe.

Yes. They are changing. Over and over again, changing.

* * *

 

Act III 

 

“Miss?”

 Phryne groans and buries her face deeper into her pillow, desperately hoping that if she’s quiet enough, Dot will leave her to sleep and come back later. She can’t know for certain without opening her eyes, but she suspects that it’s been less than a few hours since she had returned home.

 “Miss.” Dot repeats, apologetic, but slightly louder this time. “I’m sorry, Miss, but Dr. Mac is on the telephone; she insisted that I wake you.” 

She would roll her eyes if she were willing to open them. Mac had been her semi-reluctant partner in crime last night and they had spent their time drinking well into the early hours of this morning, hopping from one jazz club to another. Phryne has a sneaking suspicion that her friend doesn’t _need_ her so much as she wants to punish her for sleeping in while she is out teaching an early class. 

The past few weeks have been a blur of parties and late nights and sleeping until noon (when she isn’t in the middle of an investigation; there have been many investigations, though not a single one requiring a visit to the City South police station). It has nothing to do with one Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. It doesn’t. Any relation to falling-outs that _may_ have occurred are purely coincidental.

 She mutters a few choice words under her breath, but when Dot only clears her throat and prepares to call for her attention once again, Phryne flips back the heavy covers and puts her feet on the floor.

 “Oh alright. I’m coming.”

 “Thank you, Miss.” 

Phryne makes it down the stairs through a combination of luck and muscle memory and picks up the telephone.

 “ _What_.” 

“Got that out of your system, have you? Good. I need you at the university.” 

“Why?” she responds plaintively. She’s still mostly asleep and can’t quite bring herself to act like a grownup. Besides, what’s a little whining between friends? 

“I’m not your bloody Inspector, Phryne. I call, you come. And be quick about it.” 

Mac hangs up and Phryne carelessly drops the receiver, paying no mind when she misses the cradle.

 “Dot,” she calls up the stairs. “Would you mind-

 “Here you are, Miss.” Dot appears in the foyer with a cup of tea.

 Phryne accepts the proffered cup with gratitude and gives Dot an easy smile. “You really are a treasure.”

 Dot is quick to flush, but equally quick to give her a pleased smile in return. And Phryne shakes off her (slightly) grumpy mood and hurries up the stairs to get dressed. 

The ride to the university it quick – thanks to the Hispano and her _excellent_ driving – but Mac is already waiting for her on the street, shifting agitatedly from foot to foot. Phryne gears up to say something clever but is cut off before she gets the chance.

 “Come with me.” 

By now, Phryne has picked up on the fact that there is more to this than petty vengeance for being a bad influence, and she picks up her pace to keep in step. They wind their way through corridors full of students and finally, Mac unlocks a door and reveals a dead body.

 “Not one of yours, I’m guessing?” Phryne asks dryly. 

“What do you think?” 

“Oh dear.” 

“Quite.”

 There’s a slight twitching in Mac’s right fingers and Phryne can guess how much she wants a cigarette. She’s gruff and annoyed (more so than usual), behaving as if Phryne is personally responsible for this inconvenience to her workday, and Phryne makes a trip back to the car to retrieve the flask she keeps under the seat for emergencies like this one. Mac is always more agreeable once she’s been offered good whiskey. 

When she returns, she hands Mac the flask without preamble and gives them a restart. 

“Any idea what happened?” 

“There was a mix up…”

 A period of time follows during which she hears little-to-none of the conversation around her. Though she knows she should be listening. She _tries_ to listen. But Jack arrives and after weeks of avoiding him, seeing his face so close makes something in her chest twist most uncomfortably. 

She feels uncharacteristically foolish; the man lying on Mac’s table has clearly been murdered. _Of course_ the police were bound to show up sooner or later. But she hadn’t anticipated this. Had not prepared herself. And on top of feeling foolish, she’s annoyed that the surprise has – _temporarily_ (a fraction of a moment, really) – rendered her utterly transparent. The only consolation lies in the fact that the generally unflappable inspector appears to be ruffled as well. 

When Mac reveals herself to be the perpetrator of this particular reunion, Phryne petulantly allows herself to believe that the doctor had got her revenge after all. There are a great number of police officers and inspectors in their area, and Mac had to call _him_. If this isn’t petty vengeance, she doesn’t know what is. 

She’s never felt this way around Jack. He won’t meet her eyes, she can’t get more than half a sentence out before he begins speaking over top of her, and nothing she says can provoke even a hint of a smile. She is well aware of her effect on men and though Jack has resisted her charms in the past, she can tell when he’s amused. He had resigned himself to her presence long before they had become friends. 

She tells herself that it is going to get better, that it _must_ get better, but it doesn’t. 

_Not as easily. Not as quickly._

 With these sharp dismissals, Phryne has no choice but to come to terms with the fact that nothing has changed since the last time they had done this awful dance. The Inspector will not be swayed. He wants no part in her assistance. Wants nothing to do with her at all. 

Mac, in her usual forthright fashion, has phrased it perfectly. Jack Robinson is a coward. 

It’s for the best that he is so quick to leave; she’s struck by a rather impressive impulse to kick him in the shins again. His distance takes the need for self control out of her hands but she can’t refrain from making an admittedly childish yell after him in a transparent effort to achieve the last word. Well Good riddance to Jack Robinson. 

Except, Beatrice doesn’t need her either and suddenly Phryne is all out of ways to keep her hands (and head. And heart.) busy. There is no one to see her and she can’t quite resist placing her head against the cool column. She has never been one for wallowing, but she would be willing to do almost anything to ease this most unwelcome tightening in her chest as she feels her carefully controlled life spiralling in a direction she did not give consent. 

He isn’t acting rationally, and she resents him for it. Resents that she is being forced to play both their roles because he is too busy sulking to do his part. But she regroups (she is resilient and she always, _always_ regroups). Pushes him back. Because while he’s better at resisting her than most, he can’t resist her forever. When he jumps on a motorcycle to take off after their suspect, she has just about reached the end of her depths for the delicate approach and she jumps on behind him, steamrolling over his protests the way she would have any other day prior to his walking out of her parlour. 

They end back at the beginning (or begin at their ending, depending on one’s perspective). Jack’s hesitation over the threshold is slight, but not so slight as to escape Phryne’s notice. Mac’s presence eases the transition, and Phryne is glad (for the hundred thousandth time) for her strong and sensible right hand woman. The whiskey is top notch and they drink to another case solved, and then they drink some more. Beatrice and Charlie will become the kind of doctors Australia needs, and Oliver will not. Sometimes, people get what they deserve. 

They are a waltz, slow and close. This is their middle ground. And it is enough.

* * *

 

Act IV 

 

Dot makes a lovely bride. Phryne does not make a habit of crying at weddings any more than she makes a habit of fussing over small children, but Dot is special to her. When Dot turns back, she’s earnest as always and Phryne feels her eyes begin to burn. Seeing Dot happy and ready for this next adventure she has chosen leaves Phryne brimming with happiness and pride. 

Their remaining mismatched collection of characters head to the nearest pub while Jack and Phryne take the slow route back to her car, arms linked together. They are changing. Hands on silk ties and torn blouse collars are a part of their slow waltz. 

“Nightcap?” she suggests. 

“I don’t think that’s wise. Your driving is reckless at the best of times and I can only assume your flying to be the same; I’d prefer you get a full night’s rest and avoid crashing into the ocean, if it’s all the same to you, Miss Fisher.” 

“Spoilsport,” she pouts. 

His hand grazes the back of her arm before he tucks it back in his pocket. And Oh, she is going to miss Jack Robinson. But she can’t think about that. 

“Whatever are you going to do without me?” she asks instead. She is bubbly. Flirtatious. They are changing. Except when they are not. 

“A lot more work, I imagine.” The words are flat but the hint of a smile across his lips makes her swallow against a discomfort she can’t name (or rather, chooses not to). 

They reach her car, but they aren’t particularly eager to part ways and Phryne lets her hands linger on the handle before turning back to face him. The weight of his gaze is too much, so she settles for adjusting his lapel and smoothing his jacket.

 “Are you sure you won’t join me for a drink?” 

It occurs to him that this will be his last opportunity to indulge with her for what could be a very long time. Though it is true that he wants her to get a proper rest, he is also defending his own wellbeing. It’s difficult enough knowing she’s flying to England in the morning with no one to assist her but her useless and flighty father; if he joins her at Wardlow now, it will be all the more difficult to say goodbye. Prolonging the inevitable has never done anyone any good. 

But it’s a selfish mentality. And so reminiscent of his behaviour following her _not_ being killed in a motor accident, he can’t help but think that perhaps he should let her have her way from the get go and save himself the trouble of changing his mind down the road. 

“Perhaps just the one, Miss Fisher.” 

The house is dark and quiet when they arrive and Jack follows her into the kitchen, steadfastly ignoring the charts and maps that have taken over every square inch of this table as well as the table in the dining room. He can feel her eyes on him, gauging him, chin raised in pre-emptive defiance, and he does not open his mouth to offer advice or warnings. He accepts the scone she offers along with the tumbler generously filled with whiskey and he is careful to keep his features neutral.

 “You’ve finalised your routes?” He sits at the table and takes a large swallow of his drink, running his index finger along a pencil marked course on the map. 

Phryne waves a hand dismissively, but the careless act is juxtaposed by the evidence of thoughtful, meticulous planning before him. Jack’s chest unclenches. Somewhat.

 “It’s a course marked for speed.” 

“Now there’s a shock,” he deadpans.

 Phryne smirks. “It’s designed – in equal measure – to get my father home where he belongs before he can find trouble, and to get him home before he wears my patience so thin that I toss him overboard to rid myself of the hassle altogether.” 

“And the course home?” He dares to press.

 She shrugs. “Less clear. I may need to do something drastic to rid myself of the memories of his company. And England in general.” 

Jack’s small smile tugs a little higher. “I have no doubt that you’ll have some poor local constable wrapped neatly around your finger by then in the event of legal emergency. Like most of your marks, he’ll be too young and too inexperienced to realise he’s being artfully manipulated.” 

“Hmm. I’ll need to be sure he has an older, more experienced superior looking after him. Otherwise I risk all my hard work going unappreciated. I _do_ love an audience.” 

A small chuckle escapes him. “Is that all I was in the beginning? Your audience?” 

She beguiles him with wide eyes and another delicate shrug of her bare shoulders. “Poor Hugh didn’t stand a chance. Still doesn’t; though now he gets full marks for effort.” 

Jack concedes to this with a tilt of his head and another sip of whiskey. Phryne does the same. They sit like this for a time, drinking in silence while lost in their own worlds. But Phryne has never done silence for long. Or stillness. She stands up and downs what’s left of her drink with purpose before refilling her glass and topping off his. Jack watches expectantly. He does not have her need for motion; he is comfortable observing until she sees fit to let him in on her new plan. 

“To the piano, Jack.” She declares. 

“Phryne, no…” he tries to protest, but she’s already pulling on his arm and he’s forced to stand or risk spilling his drink. 

“Yes. It’s my last request.” 

“That’s a touch dramatic. Even for you.” 

“Oh you _know_ what I mean. Quickly now, before the Baron arrives.” 

Jack stops short. “He’s coming back here?”

 “That’s the plan. If he does another vanishing act, you’ll be forced to arrest me on charge of murder.” Jack doesn’t smile. In fact, his brow furrows and he begins to look entirely preoccupied. She continues pulling him toward the parlour. “Don’t look so concerned, Jack. He’ll be hours yet. With any luck he’ll get so drunk he’ll be out cold all the way to England.” 

Jack ruefully shakes his head. “I should go, Miss Fisher. It’s getting late.” 

“It’s well past late, Jack.” 

Her voice has gone soft again and he knows her well enough to recognise that it isn’t a tactic. Not yet. God help him once she figures out how difficult it is for him to say no to her when she’s without pretense. And for the second time tonight, he gives in.

 She’s impossibly spirited once she gets him seated on the bench. He begins to play and she behaves herself for approximately the first six bars, then she speeds up the pace, slows it down, leaves him scrambling to keep to her erratic tempos. She forgets the lyrics to the next song halfway through and begins making them up, singing things so ridiculous with an expression so blasé he cannot help but laugh. He joins in and it becomes a game of improvisation, increasingly silly until she is too short of breath to sing and his hands begin to slip over the keys. They come to a clumsy finish and he would like to blame it on the whiskey, but it’s her. It’s always her. And when he opens his mouth, the words that tumble out are surprisingly solemn. 

“I don’t know.”

 Her laughter is cut short by his sombre tone, and she tilts her head half in confusion, half in curiosity. “Don’t know what?” 

“The answer to your question, Miss Fisher, is I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.” 

She drops her head onto his shoulder and sighs, and he presses a kiss into her hair without really thinking about it. 

They are changing. Changing. And no one is running scared.

* * *

 

Act V

 

She lasts less than a week in the family home before she packs her things and checks into a nearby hotel. Coddling one’s parents is a particularly exhausting effort for someone who isn’t even fond of _actual_ children. She tells Jack to come after her but it’s more of a figurative overture than a literal one; she has no intention of staying in England long enough for him to reach her by boat. She has no intention of being away from Melbourne for longer than it takes to drop off her father, settle her parents’ affairs and fly home.  But her small plane barely manages the voyage and leaves her with no choice but to sail back. 

 Her time spent in England is long, and the return trip by sea is longer.

 She passes the time as best as she can; she makes friends and joins rough card games below the deck. And the closer she gets to her home, to her life, the greater the energy that consumes her. The last week of the voyage, she is a whirlwind of restless activity, rarely found in one place for longer than a minute. Everything is different the second time, but it is not until she spots her noble Jack waiting on the docks in the space last occupied by Mac that she is hit by the full weight of how very different her life is now.

 Phryne spots him before he spots her and she finds it thrilling to have the lead before she even steps off the boat. Vantage point be damned. His hands are in his pockets, his long coat rippling gently in the wind. Then he sees her. And the full fledged smile he so rarely puts on display sends her carefully cultivated witty greeting beyond her reach. 

“You’re the last one off the boat, Miss Fisher, save for the crew. Must you always be fashionably late?”

 She grins and throws her arms around his neck, sinks into him when he grips her firmly around the waist. “Must you always be so inflexible?” 

“Welcome home, Phryne.” 

She turns her head into his shoulder and inhales deeply, remembering his scent and his solid presence and feeling decidedly drunk on both.

 When she steps back, he smiles and offers her his arm. “Come on. I have a surprise for you.”

 Curiosity immediately stirred, Phryne peppers him with questions as she follows him through the crowded docks and smiles at each of his predictably nonplussed answers. Slow and Close. When they turn into a nearby alley and she spots her beloved Hispano, Phryne breaks into a wide smile. Finding a car in England had been easy enough, but it hadn’t been _her_ car. And here it is, exactly as she had left it.

 “Jack!” 

He clears his throat. “I thought you might want to drive back. If you’re not too tired.” 

“But you hate this car.” 

He shakes his head. “It isn’t the car I hate, but rather the way you drive it.” 

She is struck by the familiarity of the exchange and by how quickly it begins to feel as if she had never left. Jack continues to speak, but for once she really isn’t listening to a word. Her focus rests on his half smile, on his strong jaw, and she yanks him toward her by his tie, cutting him off mid-sentence with a kiss that is just over the line of public decency. Jack matches her enthusiasm. He is quite adept at taking hints. 

When they part, she flashes him another grin and jumps into the driver seat. Jack walks around the Hispano and opens the passenger door at a much more subdued pace. The engine turns easily and she pushes heavily on the gas, and _oh_ , it is _wonderful_ to be back in Australia. 

“How is Wardlow?” Phryne asks, her voice raised slightly to be heard over the rushing wind. 

“Ashes. Your red-raggers burned it to the ground.”

 She frowns at him. “You haven’t been antagonising Bert while I’ve been gone, have you?”

 “Me? Antagonise him? Phryne, the man goes out of his way to break the law and unlike you, he makes no efforts to do me the courtesy of at least being charming about it.” 

“Do you find me charming, Inspector?” 

Her left fingers graze his knee and Jack shifts uncomfortably both in response to the physical contact as well as the way she repeatedly takes her eyes off the road to look at him. 

 “I find you many things, Miss Fisher.” She holds his gaze too long for his liking, and he breaks their spell by gesturing vaguely at the space before them. “Would you watch the road please?” 

A soft smile rests on her face when she turns her attention back to the street, and it does not fade for the rest of the drive. 

There is a party in full swing at 221B The Esplanade. Phryne changes clothes and she drinks and dances, and when the hour is very late, Jack is the last to leave. She is home. 

\-- 

Their first time is a rapid (but most satisfactory) ascension to climax; they are sure hands and hammering hearts, heady with lust and overcome by the desire to cement something unnamed between them that could have been lost but managed to endure. Their second time is every bit as eager, but not quite so desperate. The third time is _fabulous_ fun (Dot would never sit on the parlour lounge again if she caught wind of the indecent acts that had been performed atop it). The fourth time leaves carpet burns on Phryne’s knees after they make it into her bedroom, but not onto her bed. With the fifth time, they stop counting. 

They are no longer a slow waltz. No longer a structured dance at all. They are children, arms crossed and hands clasped, leaning back and spinning, spinning, with only the equal and opposite force of the other to prevent them from crashing onto hard earth.

 It is midday Sunday and Phryne and Jack are taking every advantage of having the house to themselves. They do not close doors. They are not concerned with their volume. Her staff are not expected back until well after dark, and the new lovers systematically reaffirm all the little things they have learned about the other’s body in the weeks since her return. 

Phryne touches the sensitive spot on the back of his right knee at every opportunity. Jack nips her shoulder when she is _just_ on the brink of climaxing. They surface to eat lunch in the kitchen but it isn’t long before they wind up back in her bedroom, Jack’s head buried between her legs.

 It's difficult to focus on anything outside of his whispers against her cunt, the soft timbre of his voice deliciously contrasted by the filthy words rolling off his tongue. She’s always, always enjoyed his voice, but it is a new discovery (for both of them) to realise just how easily she can be undone by frank speech and low tones.

 A deep moan rises in Phryne’s throat and her back arches off the bed.  “I once boasted of your oral talents; I’m delighted to know that you won’t be making a liar of me.” 

She regrets speaking when he removes his mouth and raises his head to answer her.

 “I would ask you how the subject of my oral talents came up in polite conversation if I thought for one moment that you could be trusted to give me a reasonable answer.” 

“Just know that I am an excellent judge of potential. Especially when it comes to teeth, apparently.” 

He bites gently on the inside of her thigh and then is quick to run his tongue over the small mark to soothe any sting. “I have no doubt.”

She doesn’t want to talk any more and she absolutely doesn’t want _him_ talking any more. Not while he does not seem to be capable of multitasking. So she tangles her hands in his hair and pushes him back to task. He resists for a moment and her eyes narrow as she prepares for them to enter into a battle of wills, but Jack decides that teasing her really only delays his own gratification and he sucks her clitoris with unexpected – but _so pleasant_ – force before plunging his tongue back inside her.

“ _Yes_.” Phryne’s hips buck involuntarily. “Yes. Yes. _Again._ ”

Jack obliges. His hands grip her thighs in an attempt to keep her still, and she feels the delightfully familiar pulling in her lower abdomen that indicates she is not far from completion. She cries out in protest when he stops suddenly, but he’s quick to silence her frustrated cursing with his mouth on hers, and the feel of him hard against her stomach is somewhat appeasing. Her legs fall open in eager anticipation of a different kind of pleasure, and Jack teases her opening with his cock.

“Choose.”

His voice is steady as always, but his eyes are dark, his jaw tight, and Phryne can tell he is just as close as she is. She undulates against him impatiently.

“Fast. Together. _Now_.”

They shudder when their bodies join, as if they still haven’t quite become accustomed to the intensity of feeling this brings. They are groping hands and frantic hips as they tumble over the edge (fast. Together. Just as requested), and they collapse onto their backs, panting heavily. Phryne hums her approval as the aftershocks of her orgasm continue to flutter through her body. Jack grunts his agreement and brings his arms above his head, fighting to get his breathing back under control.

“You’re quite sure we’ll be alone until supper?” He asks for the fourth time.

For the fourth time, Phryne rolls her eyes. “Yes, Jack. And they know to call first if anything changes. We have time for another reckless dalliance. And another. And another…”

Jack groans. “I’d like to think I’m a man of some stamina, Phryne, but if we keep on like this it will be Christmas before my legs are in working order again.”

She chuckles and her eyes dance with mischief. “Fortunately, if you maintain functionality of your tongue and _other_ appendage,” her gaze shifts pointedly downward and then back up, “you could still be quite useful to me.”

Jack’s hair is curling softly against his forehead and he is unguarded as he drinks her in. In this moment he looks impossibly young. Phryne places a hand over his heart and tries to match its rhythm.

“You’re trouble, Miss Fisher.”

But not _too much_ trouble. The distinction is important.

They are changing. Changing. Changed.


End file.
